When the lights darken to evoke planetary nights, he thinks he can bear this. Because the dark allows him closure, gives him license to wander around the empty corridors, bereft of the crewmen presently tucked away in their quarters, lost and dreamlessly so.
Contemplation. Such small moments are lost to him, when he is overwhelmed almost continuously by responsibility, the harsh, large sense that yes, he is the captain of a starship; yes, he is the lives of four-hundred-and-twenty-eight-people, individually separated and significantly meshed only in him. He will die for these people. He will die for his ship- singularly unimportant, because he knows he is wedded to it, this glorious amalgamation of steel and wires and silver, but too true to ignore. He thinks of this even as he strolls down its darkened corridors, a captain pensively lost. Because these wanderings save him, if only for a little bit.
His ship. It is his ship, and as he walks around its darkened corridors on one particular night, he notices the other thing that saves him. It is a tall figure, neatly cut around the edges, and walking briskly towards him.
"Captain," the figure greets, inclining his head like so, in a certain, regal way Jim cannot ever hope to copy. But it does not matter, because he is not made for that. Rigidly defined manners and stiff postures, they would look horribly forced on him-
"Hello, Mr. Spock."
-but on Spock they were just right. Wonderfully right.
"Are you all right, Captain?" the man asks, eyes dark and soft and concerned all at the same time. It is not quite obvious to one passing by, but to Jim, the look is everything. Then he is visited by a fleeting urge to tell his first officer to please, just call me Jim, it sounds better, friendlier, more intimate- but he supposes Spock would not entirely appreciate it.
"I am perfectly fine," Jim replies, and takes care not to sway a bit. But he does so, anyway, falling to his right, and quick as a flash, a pale hand darts out and steadies him. Lovely reflexes, Jim thinks, and smiles. "Must you always catch me when I fall?" he asks, half-laughing, because he is in a strange mood tonight, and the line running along Spock's jaw and down his throat has become strangely fascinating.
"You are drunk," mutters Spock, blatantly ignoring his question, which makes Jim pout for a millisecond. I am not, thinks Jim, slightly affronted, but the Vulcan puts out another hand to steady his other shoulder, though he feels quite stable already, and keeps them there.
And Jim supposes that more than makes up for anything.
The world momentarily blurs as Spock raises an eyebrow at him. "I will take you to the sickbay," he says quietly, but Jim does not want to go to the sickbay. He pulls at a blue sleeve in mild reproach.
"Let's stay here," he says, voice and eyes like a child. Because he does not want to go anywhere just yet, not when they are right by windows full of stars. Spock fixes him with a look.
"Captain…"
And all of a sudden, Jim finds he does not mind the title, not when it is said in a low, oddly compelling voice, soft and firm at the same time. He finds it fascinating, and stares at Spock with new eyes.
"You-" Arms creep around a blue-shirted waist. A breath. A beat.
"You smell nice," Jim admits, in the voice of one confessing a secret, and Spock is still, so very still. But the man does smell nice, a soft smell vaguely reminiscent of heat and incense and sleepy evenings on Earth.
"Jim," his first officer murmurs, and his voice sounds like a plea. Jim does not mind, though.
"Warm," the captain replies, though it is not a reply at all. Instead, he talks with a kiss near a pale throat. Spock is quite warm, a comforting sort of warm, and Jim does not think as he stands on his tiptoes and places a kiss on a tremblingly hot mouth.
"Jim-" Spock says, only this time it is more of a grunt, and Jim is suddenly slammed up on a steel wall. It is not painful, merely dominant, and the captain gasps as a mouth works against him, tongue, teeth, wet and hotly fierce. "You," hisses his first officer, "are a most cunning creature," but hands are slipping under yellow fabric anyway, finding skin and sensitive places all over, and fingers stroke underneath blue and black. And a long-fingered hand drifts near Jim's face, the touch sharply at odds with the physical ministrations, soft and caressing.
"My mind to your mind," whispers Spock. And Jim does not mind at all.
Later, what sticks with him the most is the mind meld, intimate and probing and comforting. He saw the meticulously ordered mind of Spock, and the disparity between the two grew even clearer as he realized his mind is hopelessly cluttered. Beautifully diverse, is what Spock whispered to him, and for all their differences, the two clung each other tightly, fitting each other rather perfectly.
And Jim remembers murmuring, over and over, Don't leave me. Don't ever leave me.
I never shall, Spock says softly, because that is the only answer he can give.
And Jim knows he can bear anything duty throws at him, just for the promise behind those words.
When Jim wakes up, he finds himself in the sickbay, neatly tucked in white, clean sheets. Bones is staring at the readings over his head, though he starts when he realizes Jim is awake.
"What… what happened, Bones?" He is relieved to find he is coherent.
Bones rolls his eyes at him. "Why don't you tell me?" His voice is wry. Jim frowns, and tries to look sheepish.
"I can't…" he mutters, and the good doctor gives another eye roll at that.
"Can't remember? Let me jog your memory a bit." The doctor paces around the bed. "Spock came in here carrying you like a bride, going on about how he found you fainted on the floor in an alcoholic stupor. Now the only thing I can confirm is that yes, you really were drunk, and probably for no good reason." Bones gives him an exasperated look, and a bit of his accent slips in as he asks, "Were you tryin' to kill yourself?"
"No," Jim says slowly. "I…" He touches his temples softly.
. "You said something about Spock."
Bones peers down at him, and Jim finds he cannot meet his eyes. "Yes, he was the one who brought you here." The doctor pauses, then continues, voice suspiciously curious, "What really happened, Jim? Because I'd never seen Spock act like that. If he were a human, I'd say he was being hysterical."
Jim stares down at the floor. "Did he stay?"
"What?"
"Did he stay?"
"He wouldn't leave until I told him to go, if that's what you mean," Bones replies. Jim looks up at him, and just like that, suspicions coalesced to form one definite conclusion.
Oh god. The doctor looks up at the ceiling and takes a moment. He finds he has to do that quite a lot around his captain.
After said moment, he asks, "Your memory's intact, right? You remember most of everything?"
Jim remembers. He remembers everything, and slowly, his hand reaches up and touches his temple again.
"How long was I out?"
"Four hours, give or take. You didn't miss much."
Oh. Well, Jim feels perfectly all right, at any rate, so he gets up from the biobed and makes his way towards the door. The doctor regards him, and in a rare moment, does not protest at all at his patient's departure. But special circumstances require rare moments, after all.
"Jim?"
"Yes, Bones?"
Bones stares at him thoughtfully.
James T. Kirk. Brash and bold, the first cadet to ever beat the Koyabashi Maru. An extraordinary man- completely one-of-a-kind. Even in love, the captain is… unique.
The good doctor raises an eyebrow.
"I'm very happy for you."
Jim's eyes widen fractionally. And he flushes, turns towards the door, looks back at the slightly smiling doctor, then scurries out in a sudden, inexplicable hurry.
Bones chuckles and rolls his eyes.
The two are quite normal with each other later on, though Spock appears a bit stiffer than usual and Jim keeps suffering a pain in his back. At any rate, the crew does not notice anything, and continues not to do so even when Jim ambushes Spock in the turbo lift for a denial, a tense exchange, and eventually a kiss.
Except the crew quite definitely knows what's going on, and Sulu and Chekov exchange gleeful looks as the captain and his first officer emerge from the lift messy-haired and partially flushed. Uhura hides a smile behind her hand, and Scotty averts his eyes and abstains from a merry chuckle.
After all, it had always been inevitable.
When I began, I had a completely different intention with this- well, different from the one I had when I finished.
And if you're wondering why Kirk was drinking, it was because he just lost six men. I tried to work that in the story, but I couldn't quite work it out. :c
Anyway, I experimented with present-tense perspective, and I think I quite like it. Thanks for reading! c: